“Grade’s back. It is rigid with disapproval. Since I have only just come home, it cannot be anything I have done. It must be you. I imagine it was a visit to Emily to recount to her everything you know about the murders in the Devil’s Acre-especially since one of them concerns the footman of a previous acquaintance. Now tell me, am I mistaken?”
“I-”
He waited.
“Of course we discussed it!” Her eyes were bright, the blood warm in her cheeks. “But that is all-I swear! Anyway, what more could we do? We can hardly go to such a place. But we did wonder what on earth Dr. Pinchin was doing there. There are much better places for picking up loose women, if that is what he wanted, you know?”
“Yes, I do know, thank you.”
Her eyes met his in a flash, then slid away into a professed candor again. “Have you thought that perhaps he put up the money for Max, Thomas? You know, some unlikely-seeming people go into partnership with-”
“Yes, thank you,” he replied with a smile bubbling up inside him. “I thought of that, too.”
“Oh.” She looked disappointed.
He took her hand and pulled her toward him. “Charlotte,” he said gently.
“What?”
“Mind your own business!”
3
The following day, Pitt pursued the investigation in the next most obvious course. He took his oldest coat and a rather battered hat that normally not even he would have worn and set out in a drizzling rain for the Devil’s Acre, to find Max’s establishments-or at least one of them.
It was an area like many of the older slums of London, a curious mixture of societies that lived quite literally on top of each other. In the highest, handsomest houses with frontages on lighted thoroughfares lived successful merchants and men of private means. Below them, in smaller houses on lesser streets, were lodging-rooms for clerks and tradesmen. Beneath even these, squat and grimy, were the sagging tenements and cellars of the very poor, sometimes packed so full of humanity that two or three families shared one room. The stench of refuse and bodily waste was choking. Rats teemed everywhere, so that an untended baby might well be eaten alive. And more children died of starvation or disease than ever reached an age of six or seven years, when they might profitably join one of the schools for pickpockets and apprentice thieves.
Among this warren of alleys and passageways were the sweatshops, the rooms where broken-down lawyers or clerks drafted false affidavits, account books, and receipts, where forgers practiced their art, and where receivers of stolen goods made bargains. And of course there were the gin mills, doss houses and brothels, and the police snouts.
Over it all loomed the shadow of the great towers of Westminster Abbey, coronation cathedral of kings, the tomb of Edward the Confessor before Norman William ever sailed from France to defeat the Saxon king and take England for himself. And beyond the Abbey was Big Ben, the Palace of Westminster, the Mother of Parliaments since the days of Simon de Montfort six hundred years ago.
There was no point in Pitt’s hoping to receive answers to questions posed in this teeming rats’ nest. The police were the natural enemy, and the swarming population knew an outsider as a dog knows one, by senses far subtler than mere sight. In the past he had made a few arrests here, but had also let a few slip by. He had friends- or, if not friends, at least those who knew what could be to their advantage.
Pitt followed gray alleys past youths idle and sullen, watching him with mean eyes. He hunched his shoulders, aping the furtive gait of the long-abused, but he did not look behind him. They would smell fear and be on him like a hunting pack. He walked as if he knew where he was going, as if the narrow passages-sometimes only wide enough to allow two men to pass each other sidewise-were as familiar to him as his home.
Beams creaked, wood rotted and settled. A dozen rats scattered as he approached, their feet scrabbling on the wet stones. Old men lay in doorways, perhaps in drunken stupor, or maybe they were dead.
It took Pitt half an hour before he found the man he was looking for, in a dilapidated attic where he did his work. Squeaker Harris, so named for his sharp, high-pitched voice. He was a little man with narrow eyes and a pointed nose-not unlike a rat himself, Pitt thought. All he lacked was the long, hairless tail. He was a scrivener, a forger of letters of recommendation, of papers of attorney.
“Wotcher want wiv me?” he demanded truculently. “I ain’t done nuffin’, not as yer can prove!”
“Not trying to, Squeaker,” Pitt replied. “Although I dare say I could if I put my mind to it.”
“Nah!” Squeaker dismissed the possibility, but there was anxiety in his quick little face. “Nah-never!”
“We won’t know, will we-if I don’t try?” Pitt pointed out.
“So wotcher want, then? Yer never came ter Devil’s Acre fer yer ’ealf!”
“Information of course.” Pitt looked at him with mild contempt. He should have known that; indeed the pretense was a waste of time.
“I dunno nuffin’ abaht no crimes!” Squeaker warned.
“Of course not,” Pitt said dryly. “You’re an upright citizen, making a few pence writing letters for those who haven’t the skill for themselves.”
“Vat’s right-yer got it in one!” Squeaker nodded vigorously.
“But you know the Devil’s Acre,” Pitt pursued.
“Course I do-I was bloody born ’ere!”
“Ever heard of a pimp named Max? And don’t lie to me, Squeaker, or I’ll arrest you for withholding information about a murder, and it’ll be the long drop for you! This is a bad one.”
“Oh, my Gawd! Yer mean vat poor sod as was-oh, Gawd!” Squeaker paled under the dirt on his face. “Oh, Gawd!” he said again.
“So?” Pitt prompted. “What do you know about Max?”
“I dunno ’oo killed ’im, I swear to yer, Mr. Pitt. Some kind o’ maniac! ‘Oo’d do vat ter any man? It ain’t decent.”
“Of course you don’t know who killed him,” Pitt conceded with a tolerant smile. “Or you’d have told us all about it, naturally.”
“Natcherly,” Squeaker agreed, glancing away nervously. He thought Pitt was laughing at him, but he did not want to put it to the test. “I swear,” he added for good measure.
“What about Max?” Pitt pressed. “What was he like?”
“Good at it,” Squeaker said grudgingly. Pimping was a lot more profitable than petty forgery, as well as probably more fun. “’Ad a natcheral talent, ’e ’ad-fer vat sort o’ fing!” He did not want to be too fulsome in his praise. After all, Max could not have made a good forgery to save himself. In fact, Squeaker was not sure if he could even write a legible hand! There was great skill in writing well, and it should not be undervalued.
Remembering the heavy, sensual face with its dark eyes, Pitt could well believe that Max had such a talent. “Yes,” he said. “So I heard. Had several houses, didn’t he?”
Squeaker looked at him cautiously. “Know vat, do yer?”
“I do. What sort of clients did he cater to?”
“Depends which ’ouse as yer talkin’ abaht,” Squeaker said. “If ’n yer means ve one in Partridge Lane-well, anyone as ’ad ve price. Real scrubbers, vey are. But if ’n yer means ve one up by George Street-well, nah, vat’s diff ’rent altergevver. Nah some o’ vem ’as real class. An’ I ’as ’eard say as ’e’ll provide a gentleman wiv enough money ter spend wiv some ladies o’ blood, as yer might say.” He leered knowingly, showing brown teeth. The idea obviously amused him, as a sort of obscene revenge upon the society that had excluded him completely.
“Ladies of blood, eh?” Pitt raised his eyebrows. That sounded promising. He fixed Squeaker with a look of suspicion. “Ladies of blood?” he repeated skeptically.
“Vat’s wot I said-take it or leave it.” Squeaker knew he had Pitt’s interest, and he enjoyed the sensation. “Mebbe vat’s w’ere yer murder comes from. Never mess wiv the Quality-golden rule. Vey ain’t used ter bein’ took, and vey feels it very ’ard-can get real nasty. Stick to yer own-ven yer won’t get someone as don’t know ve rules,
